The Passing.

21st January 2021

The oul man passed four days ago. The on lookers, both friends and family lined either side of the streets. Crows on a telephone wire. The smooth pined pressed firmly down against six shoulders, each one holding the other up with his own emptiness. I watched those who gathered around bowed their head in respect. The air hung moist with dew, and the frost speckled the tarmacked pavements which created a shimmer in the low light of the morning. He would’ve been proud of us, as we always were of him. Such a grafter. Never workshy or lazy. Four o’clock in the morning, up and out, back for tea at six. That was always the way of it. God, I have to laugh, if he could see us now, he would be wondering what had gotten us all down. The black masses of black suits, black ties and black moods, the old black dog was surely mixing through the crowd. But he’d still be smiling. The long walk began from the house to the chapel began; a chorus of marching feet met the road with matching rhythm. We wept silently, held our heads up high and tried to make you proud. Were you proud of how we stood? Shoulder to shoulder, holding one another up with the chains of mutual grief. The slow rolling sound of the wet tires on the black chapel tarmac seemed to be magnified tenfold in the silence as we approached the station from which we would accompany you on your last journey. The marble floors, high stone walls and wooden pews seemed daunting. I whispered to ma, “Are you okay”, she squeezed my hand and nodded, a pillar of strength in this time of grief. And we never appreciated that enough. The chorus of beautiful voices serenaded the ceremony and ushered us into a new way of life. Not one which we wished to enter, but the hand was dealt, as they sang, we walked the aisle a final time we came to terms. The service was beautiful, everything was just as he would have liked it. The final walk seemed like a dream, we moved as if we were attempting to walk under water. We knew what was coming, yet we did not wish to see it. His body was bore down, and as the brass handled pine was passed from flesh to earth, we felt a sense of ease.

25th January 2021

A musty smell wafted into the air as I opened the door to my fathers on study, books and papers littered the floor, the surface hardly visible. The old brass rimmed clock read 9:45, still stopped at the time he died. No one had been in here since he died. Suddenly I had the urge to plop myself down in his chair. His chair. It felt strange to sit here, we were never allowed to enter this room as children much less to sit on his chair. The old worn leather creaked as shifted my weight and made myself comfortable. I felt like an eagle, one who scans the ground below with meticulous observation. I noticed everything about his desk which I had never noticed before. Small nicks and indents on the table, little imperfections and signs of wear. Scratches around the keyhole of the old, locked drawer on the underside of the desk. I had never seen it opened. As if it were nature my hand drifted to the old CD player on the left flank of the desk. I sighed in comfort, as if I had settled down in front of the fire with a warm mug of tea. The soft tinkling of piano arose, my father adored Bach, now I understand why. I decided to allow the Goldberg variations to continue in the background as I perused his bookshelves. He had some wonderful pieces, some of my personal favourites as well, among them The sun also rises, 1984, Great Expectations. It would seem the old man was holding out on me. My eyes fell to his collection of notebooks, he would always carry them with him. One of them seemed to be out of place. This was very strange; these notebooks were always kept away. Even if the room had been bombed, they would have always stayed in the same place. So naturally I decided to lift it, its frayed page marker was lodged half quarters of the way through the book. The hard leather spine felt right in my hands, like I was meant to have it. It’s neat well-thumbed pages had been crowned with the precise calligraphic penmanship of my father. Seeing this flooded my mind with memories of him teaching me how to write, dear god it felt refreshing to remember. This first few pages which I thumbed through were his various scribbles about work, finances and general life. I couldn’t help but laugh as I continued to find some of his works of poetry, he always fancied himself a poet, some were terrible, and some weren’t bad. However, I became intrigued when I opened the book to where the page marked had been nestled. It was hollow. The neatly cut rectangle was about a fifth of an inch deep, the sides of the pages were yellowed and stained from age and use. And placed in the little compartment was a key. Could this possibly fit the drawer on the desk? I pondered to myself. I allowed all my weight to sink into the buttoned leather of the chair. Why would the key be hidden? He was always cut and dry. The tinkling of the piano began to become unnerving as I let my mind wonder. I shut it off, what sounded sweet and relaxing only seemed to increase the tension now. Although the silence was not much better, I had made up my mind. It had to be opened, why should I worry about what’s inside? But I kept second guessing myself, should I open my fathers pandoras box? “Yes”. I found myself speaking aloud. “I’m sure he had nothing to hide”. I picked up the key, and turned it in my hand, the cold steel seemed to yearn for the lock. My hand drifted, almost dreamily to the lock. With a smooth click, I turned it. The drawer fought with me a little as I pulled it open with some difficulty. Two thick money clips were tightly packed away to the back of the drawer. My hands hesitated for a moment not believing what I was seeing. I picked up the notes and felt the thin paper rifle through my fingers. “Jesus Christ” I whispered through heavy breaths. We never had this kind of money in our lives, “there must be twenty-five grand here” I said unbelievingly. My words just seemed to fail me. I sat with the money in my hand, astonished. Shocked even. There was a letter in the drawer which in my excitement I had seemed to miss. I took it out and turned it over, the seal was unbroken. It was addressed to me. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, why had this been hidden in a drawer with a hidden key? With trembling hands, I tore open the ivory paper envelope. Slid the thin paper it contained out and flipped it over. It only had a short amount of text. I stared blankly for a moment and began to read, “Dear son. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, I know times are tough, but I suspect this might alleviate some of the difficulty financially anyway. Continue your studies, work hard and become the man I know you to be. Enclosed is £20000. Do with it what you will. Kindest regards, your father.” The letter was signed and dated two months before he died. I couldn’t believe what I had just read, the letter seemed to weigh a tonne, but as it slipped from my fingers it fluttered more lightly than a feather. My eyes began to well up, and a single tear for a perfect orb as it trailed down my cheek. “rest in peace da, thank you” Those words escaped from trembling lips as my shaking breath rattled from my mouth. It seemed that I too was now at peace. With a trembling hand I began to play his CD again. I closed my tear filled eyes on that worn leather chair, and let the sweet throws of sleep embrace me in their arms.